


I Think Therefore I Am Doomed

by Valerin Berenghar (Valerin)



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Clothed Sex, Come as Lube, Desk Sex, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Existential Crisis, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Masochism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28318803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valerin/pseuds/Valerin%20Berenghar
Summary: Only Gawain thinks he can fuck someone out of an existential crisis.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	I Think Therefore I Am Doomed

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to [kayabiter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter) for beta reading - without her, this wouldn't be published. All remaining mistakes are my own.

“Sometimes… it feels like I don’t exist.”

The words chilled Gawain to the bone. He froze mid-movement, lips pursed and ready for that sip of wine while the goblet wasn’t even above his elbow. When he had jokingly asked Lancelot to tell a secret a moment ago, he hadn’t expected  _ that _ – hadn’t expected anything other than a lopsided smile and a shrug.

For a fleeting moment, Gawain wondered if his ears played a trick on him, but the way Lancelot looked back at him with that sorrowful smile made him realize that it wasn’t. His heart skipped a beat, igniting a sense of panic that made his mind gallop.

“Is that the wine talking?” he blurted out, mind and mouth momentarily disconnected. The moment he heard his own voice, regret pierced through his chest with such intensity that his face twisted into a pained grimace. Lancelot’s smile hollowed out in the blink of an eye; a small, subtle thing – like a candle getting blown out, but it made Gawain want to sink through the ground.

Lancelot’s gaze fell to the goblet in his hand. He gently flicked his wrist once—twice, swirling the wine left in the beaded cup. He was still smiling – perhaps to look unbothered, but it was one of those polite smiles that looked more spiteful than anything. One of those smiles that made Gawain acutely aware that he had managed to put his foot in his mouth.

He let out a deep sigh, hand lifting to scrub over his face. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, feeling sheepish and stupid all at once. “I’m just… I don’t understand.”

It was such an absurd confession. They were amid a bloody war where the difference between life and death rubbed so close that it chafed. Every day was about seeing the sun peek over the western horizon once more, to just make it through the day, and that strife—that struggle carried a painful sense of existence.

When they hadn’t had enough food last week, that had been real. They had slaughtered three of the horses to keep everyone fed. In the week before that, they had lost thirty-six good men and women during a quarrel with the Ice King’s men. When the survivors had dragged themselves back to camp, bloody and feverish and begging to be saved, there hadn’t been enough potions and clean bandages for the healers to patch them back together. Each and every one of them had died, and that had been excruciatingly real.

A long time ago, someone had told Gawain that people existed through pain, through hardship. That all things living and breathing were destined to suffer to balance out the good parts in life; that without one it was impossible to appreciate the other, and while he believed it to be true, pain and pleasure didn’t fight a fair fight. A cut would scar regardless if it were a bodily one, or one on the soul. There was nothing left for happiness – no mark, no scar, no blemish for the joy sensed or pleasure experienced, those feelings faded so easily while pain was immortalized in the mind. A touch, a scent, a memory could unearth old ache in a heartbeat.

They existed through their pain, and Gawain could feel it in his very bones that Lancelot was real. He was more alive than anyone else in this bloody camp – or perhaps, it was that he made Gawain feel alive through something else than pain. Often, he found himself awakening as he looked into those deep, expressive eyes of his. His eyes were the promise of winter in the wind; the sound of ice breaking in the spring; the taste of woodland berries; the touch of steel. How could he  _ not _ feel real when he could make the world come alive through a simple gaze?

Gawain didn’t realize how quiet it was until the air almost twisted between them. There was an awkwardness looming between them with the question hanging about; a moment where it looked like Lancelot contemplated speaking up.

But just when Gawain got his hopes up, Lancelot broke the silence.

“Forget about it,” he said in that gentle way that meant that it would truly be forgotten if Gawain would let sleeping dogs lie. But this was a rare glimpse into Lancelot’s inner world; the one only mirrored in quick glances, and Gawain couldn’t pass up that moment.

He sat the goblet to the side, hand coming up to wave in a dismissive gesture. “No—explain,” he said and stepped closer—close enough that he could reach out and plant a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. Through the pale, thin undershirt the heat was radiating off him.

The silence thickened by each passing moment, moving beyond that awkwardness to something more serious. There was a slight flicker in Lancelot’s eyes as he searched Gawain’s face almost as if he tried to gauge if it was truly genuine or not.

“I told you,” he said flatly.

“Yes, but what does it  _ mean.”  _

There was a beat of silence, a deep breath and then. “What if you are just in my head?”

“I’m not,” Gawain shot back sharper than intended, moved by the question far more than he expected.

Lancelot’s gaze snapped down and Gawain could practically see him build the walls higher around himself; the sight tore his heart to pieces. He knew how exhausting it was to put other people first, but he couldn’t possibly imagine how it was when the people you had sworn your life to barely acknowledged the sacrifice. To most people, Lancelot was barely worth more than the ground beneath their feet. Gawain knew that Lancelot was on the outside looking in; that he was trying his best to carve a place for himself among the Fey, but that it was easier said than done when the only one who talked to him was a snappy ten-year-old. 

Perhaps it wasn’t that strange he felt this way when everyone else looked him right through – like he wasn’t there at all. 

“I can tell you that you are very real,” Gawain said, this time with less edge, “that you exist.” 

Lancelot rolled his eyes and when he turned to move away, Gawain’s fingers squeezed around his shoulder to keep him in place. “Don’t you believe my words?” he asked, voice getting darker and face twisting into a frown. 

The silence grew. It was written in Lancelot’s deep, blue eyes – there was no trust behind them. He was a man of few words, but in the year they had been holed up in this cursed castle, Gawain had mapped out all his fleeting expressions, studied them like a map. Whereas in the beginning his face had been nothing but a blank, unfeeling canvas that barely bat an eyelash against the misery in their camp, Gawain now knew what every little muscle twitch and gaze meant, and right now, he recognized the frustration. How Lancelot was boiling on the inside from being held in place rather than being given the chance to scurry away.

Gawain smoothed his hand down Lancelot’s arm, hand reaching for his. Lancelot’s fingers were cold to the touch while the palm of his hand wasn’t. 

“You feel that?” Gawain ran his thumb over Lancelot’s reddened knuckles, feather-light and barely-there until he reached the last one. He pressed down hard with his nail.

_ “Merde,” _ Lancelot cussed, hand already yanked away. 

“That means that you exist.”

Gawain watched the muscle at the hinge of Lancelot’s jaw jump. If it weren’t for the blooming bruising on those knuckles from the morning’s skirmish at the training grounds, Gawain was confident he would see them whiten. There was nothing of that bashfulness lighting up his eyes anymore. 

“Is it that easy?” Lancelot asked, but it sounded more like a demand for an answer.

Gawain narrowed his eyes as he searched his face. “Do you feel this way often?” he countered.

Lancelot squared his shoulders, lips pressed into a hard, angry line. “Do you know what makes me feel—”

“—good?” Gawain finished abruptly, mouth twitching with a growing smirk. “I have a rough idea.” 

There was a blink where he wasn’t sure what to make of the look on Lancelot’s face; dangerously blank and piercing all at once. 

But then all Gawain saw was the gleam of the goblet. He closed his eyes out of instinct and in the next moment, he felt the wine drench his face.

The silence that followed was loud. It seemed to stretch on forever. He could almost hear the drops collide against the floor as they slid down his face. When he opened his eyes, he couldn’t help but quirk a brow, more for show than anything.

Lancelot looked like he was caught at a crossroads; afraid and angry all at once. This was his core – how he was once the doors were closed or when swords were drawn. Volatile and reactive. He suffered through more emotions in the blink of an eye than most people did in a day. One moment it could be sunshine and rainbows, others it could be as if he sat at the bottom of an abyss. But of course, one had to know what to look for to see that. 

The wine dripped down Gawain’s face. He blinked some of it out of his eyes before he reached up to wipe off some more with the back of his hand. “Not much left in that cup,” he said with that still standing smirk.

Lancelot turned away as if struck, already moving over to the desk a couple steps away.

Gawain licked a drop off the back of his hand. “Waste of good wine as well,” he said as he watched how Lancelot reached for the gilded jug of wine.

For a long moment, the only sound that could be heard was the purling as he poured himself another drink. 

“I hope you are not going to pour that on me as well.”

A moment later and the pouring stopped. Gawain imagined he probably poured right up to the brim. There was a thump as Lancelot put the jug down again and then he turned, raised the goblet once to Gawain with a look of utter defiance before he began drinking in big, greedy gulps.

_ To opening up,  _ Gawain thought as he watched how Lancelot’s throat did that slight bob by each swallow. The way he didn’t look away as he drank turned it into a tickling standoff.

“That doesn’t make you feel good,” Gawain said as he pulled off his tunic, bunching it up in his hands and dabbed his face dry. “Not in the morning at least.”

But Lancelot didn’t care about that, he knew as much. 

Lancelot tipped the goblet higher and higher, finishing the last dredges of the wine before he sat the goblet down with more force than needed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he leant back against the desk, chin jutting high.

“What makes me feel good then?” 

“Fighting,” Gawain said flatly as he stepped closer, tossing the shirt onto the bed. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

Lancelot narrowed his eyes. 

“Or perhaps this is some spicy warm-up—” Gawain shrugged “—I can never tell with you.”

“Fucking or fighting, what’s the difference?” 

Gawain blew out a sharp breath over the absurd sharpness in those words. “No longer a man of God I hear,” he remarked with a widening smirk. 

Lancelot glared daggers. “Don’t talk about my God,” he said, voice low and a threat of its own.

Not that it scared Gawain; it was all bark and no bite. He stopped right before him, raising a hand to smooth over Lancelot’s arm and down to his closed fist, feeling him tense further.

“I won’t if you talk to me,” he said gently as he looked straight into those steely eyes. The words didn’t exactly mellow Lancelot, but Gawain saw how the fury that burned bright calmed into an ember.

Lancelot deflated with a sigh, looking away. In the following moment, he relaxed his fist and allowed Gawain to gently thread their fingers together, calloused palms rubbing against each other.

Gawain searched his face, smirk toning down into a gentle smile; it colored his voice. “Do you feel that way often?”

Lancelot gave him a side glance. It was an answer enough. 

“Even when we are together?” Gawain asked, more careful this time.

This time, Lancelot didn’t look up. The sound of the crackling fire in the hearth was the only thing that could be heard as Gawain watched him; his hair was drying in those familiar waves even as it was loosely pinned back. The candlelight stretched the shadows tall, making his eyelashes fan far and wide against his ashen cheeks. His lips still glistened from the drink.

Gawain ran his other hand up Lancelot’s side, coming to rest on the back of his neck. The touch was enough to knock Lancelot’s gaze up, muscles coiling beneath his hand. When he leaned in closer, Gawain felt him squeeze his hand harder and harder until he finally froze when their noses gently brushed. His breath smelled of wine. 

“Even when we do this?” Gawain whispered and in the next beat, he leaned in, lips touching and fitting together like it was meant to be. 

They kissed, slow and gentle like they had all the time in the world; it sent his heart thumping hard and stomach fluttering. Then Lancelot pressed himself closer, hand rising to caress Gawain’s cheek, kiss turning deeper. The first scratch of teeth against his lips made Gawain feel the pulse in his groin. It went from all closed lips to something more desperate—something demanding, and the more Lancelot’s breathing turned heavier, the more Gawain felt that warm, dizzying ball of arousal come to life in his belly.

He detangled their hands, arm wrapping around Lancelot's lower back to pull him closer, not allowing an inch of air between them. In turn, Lancelot clung to him as if his life depended on it. Their hips slotted together, and a lightning buzz of pleasure fired up his entire body as Gawain felt Lancelot’s hard cock rub against his, separated by only a few layers of fabric.

“Oh, so you like this?” Gawain whispered; lips still so close that he could feel Lancelot smile. It was familiar in that perfect way, and even though Lancelot’s face was nothing but a blur up close, he watched his eyes open, glittering in the low light. Awake and alive and  _ real.  _

Lancelot answered with another kiss, heated and desperate. Gawain shifted a little, allowing a hand to slide between their bodies and down Lancelot’s groin, the palm of his hand smoothing over the hard outline of his cock. 

“You really like this,” Gawain mumbled as he pulled on the knot to the front lacing of Lancelot’s pants. He made quick work of it, pulling the strings loose enough so that he could sneak a hand inside. Lancelot let out a sharp breath the moment Gawain wrapped his hand around his stiff cock. 

Trembling at the touch, Lancelot shifted, weight withdrawing to lean against the edge of the desk. Gawain smirked, other hand lifting to loosen the lacing further and pull Lancelot’s pants down the inch needed to release his cock. He was fully hard in Gawain’s hand, blood-hot and properly pulsing.

“Been a while since we did this,” Gawain mumbled as he gave him that first slow, deliberate stroke.

Lancelot let out a mewl in reply, back arching as he shifted his hips forward, desperate for the touch. 

“Is this why you have been so uptight lately?” Gawain asked as he leaned close enough to kiss the tight cords on his neck, hand working over his cock in a controlled rhythm. 

Lancelot tipped his head back, breathing hard and shallow. He gripped the edge of the desk as if it were the only thing grounding him as Gawain stroked his cock, grip tight but not too tight. He knew how Lancelot liked it. 

“Do you want to come?”

Lancelot breathed out sharply. Gawain felt the slight swell as Lancelot grew harder in his hand. He pumped his hand over his cock in the same, unfaltering pace all while he shifted his mouth higher, kissing his way up his jaw before he stopped and took in the off-color sight of him.

Lancelot was easy to please. A firm grip and he became a putty in Gawain’s hands, breathless and frantic and throbbing for release. Perhaps it was his sacred past that made him this way, but Gawain appreciated it all the same even if it never lasted for long. The thought that no one had touched him like this, made him feel this, made Gawain’s stomach clench with desire.

“Go on then,” he mumbled, words hot as he scraped his teeth over a red mark on Lancelot’s neck. He worried the spot before closing his lips around it, sucking hard. 

Lancelot turned into a bowstring ready to shoot, body taut and hips merely doing a slight shift to meet Gawain’s long, unhurried strokes. He squeezed his eyes shut, lips pressing into a tight line, and yet a tiny whimper escaped as his cock twitched in Gawain’s hand and then he was coming in hot, long spurts. He spilled all over Gawain’s fist and there was a lot of it; a testament to how long it had been since the last time they got handsy with each other. 

“Ah,” Gawain smiled from ear to ear, voice husky and dark, “you needed that.”

Lancelot swallowed as if he was choking, full-on trembling with the after-effects. Gawain kissed his cheek and all the way to his mouth, but Lancelot didn't kiss back with even half the strength or intensity from before. It was a peck on the lips at best. His fucked-out state, spent cock still pulsing weakly in Gawain's hand – it did something to him, pleasure turning hot and fiery in his belly. His cock throbbed almost painfully where it strained inside his pants. 

He gave Lancelot one, final tug from the base and up, milking those last drops of come. The touch sent Lancelot wincing, breath stuttering as he looked down on Gawain’s hand and the mess he’d made. To Gawain, it was a sight to behold – it made his pulse beat even harder between his legs, heat sinking into his flesh like claws. 

Their eyes met and Gawain gave him a sly smile as he gingerly let go of his cock, rubbing the silky-slick come in between fingertips. “Turn around,” he said. 

Lancelot blinked, eyebrows knitting together in a confused look. 

“Turn around,” Gawain said again as he was already grabbing Lancelot by the hip, thumb pressing right in the hollow there, forcing him to turn over as he shoved him against the desk. 

Lancelot clasped the edge of it, shoulders squaring and breath turning short and shallow once more as Gawain yanked his pants down further, exposing his bare ass. Gawain smoothed a hand over the milky skin, feeling the goosebumps erupt and how Lancelot stiffened as he brought his slicked-up fingers down his crack, rubbing against his hole.

Lancelot flung a hand back, lithe fingers wrapping tightly around Gawain’s wrist, momentarily stopping him from pushing in. Gawain huffed an amused breath as he stilled his hand, but raised his other. 

“Relax,” he mumbled as he pried Lancelot’s fingers open without much effort, feeling the quiet strength still lingering. He wrung his arm up behind his back – not so high as to cause him pain, but enough to keep him in place. A firm, controlling hold that Lancelot didn't challenge. 

“I know you’re spent,” Gawain continued, watching Lancelot drop his head where he was half-leaning over the desk, only propped up on his elbow, “but I think you got a bit more to give.”

The words slid past his lips while he pushed the first finger inside all the way to the second knuckle, earning himself a muted whine. Lancelot turned to stone before him as the noise died in his throat. 

He was scorching on the inside. Hot and soft and ungodly  _ tight.  _ The sensation sent Gawain’s cock aching with need. In Gawain's eyes, Lancelot was a castle of sand. Perfect and impressive on the outside, but easy to tear down and right now, Gawain wanted just that. To balance out the good. 

“It's going to hurt even more if you don't relax, but perhaps that's what you need right now,” he said. “To be fucked dry and feel the sting – it will remind you that you exist.”

Lancelot's whole body shuddered when Gawain mercilessly pushed in a second finger. The hand held behind his back squeezed into a tight fist, but Gawain knew it would never be more than that. 

“Easy,” Gawain said, pushing the fingers deeper, holding them there for a beat before he pulled them back slow, so slow that Lancelot got a chance to suck in a ragged breath, only to have it catch in his throat the moment Gawain pushed his fingers back in.

It must hurt him a little, getting his ass fingered after coming so hard and now getting plugged with only spunk to smooth the way. The thought held Gawain back, but it didn't make his cock throb any less. 

He slowly fucked his fingers in and out, feeling Lancelot’s flesh grow more and more yielding by each thrust. The solid lines in his shoulders relaxed, shallow breathing finding depth. 

But Lancelot tensed back up again at the third finger, though it was still a smooth enough slide. Gawain leaned over to kiss the back of his neck, nosing the sweet scent of his hair, still damp and smelling of birch soap.

Gawain leaned back again, putting his mind to the task and after a handful of thrusts, Lancelot deflated again, tension draining out of him. His fist unclenched and Gawain slowly loosened his hold around his wrist, but didn't let him go. 

He watched the bruised skin on Lancelot's knuckles stretch again when he managed to press in a fourth finger into that tight, searing heat. With a whimper, Lancelot squeezed around his fingers. Between the tight feel and the sweet sound, Gawain couldn't stretch his patience anymore. 

He pulled out his fingers so fast that Lancelot startled, the arm locked behind his back straining against the hold. Gawain kept him in place for a beat, only to let him go the moment after. 

Lancelot propped himself up awkwardly on both elbows, still half leaning over the desk. 

“Keep still,” Gawain said as he worked open his own pants, the whisper of cloth sounding loud in the room before he pulled out his cock. It was hot and flushed and wet with precome beading at the tip. He dragged his knuckles loosely over his cock, rubbing off what little spunk that was left after Lancelot’s release. It wasn't much. It wouldn't be enough for it to not hurt, but it was better than nothing at all. He stroked himself once, spreading it before he spat in his hand and stroked himself again. 

It would be slick enough, he thought as he aligned his cock. It had to be, echoed the afterthought as he shoved his hips forward and felt Lancelot’s body clench in greeting as he carved a place for himself in that tight, burning heat. 

Lancelot whimpered, breath catching in his throat as he shifted forward as if trying to escape, but Gawain pushed in-in-in and in, feeling his body fight the intrusion. 

The come and the spit only did so much to smooth the way. It was a knife’s edge between the pain and pleasure, a sharp sting that blended with the mounting heat in his stomach. The tight feel, the warmth, the way Lancelot’s body resisted him and failed mounted over the pain.

Gawain fucked him open. Pulling back a little when the tightness became too much and then shoved forward, filling him deeper and deeper by each thrust. It took everything not to ruin him, to not fuck him without a care in the world. To make him hurt, to make him feel alive and real and everything he didn't, but when he was balls deep inside, he stilled and took in the feel of Lancelot’s straining body against him. 

“Think you can come again?” 

Lancelot shook his head jerkily in reply, but Gawain tugged him back half a step from the edge of the desk, cock burying impossibly deeper as he reached around and gripped his cock, realizing he was half-hard.

Lancelot mewled at the touch, arching away, but that only ground him harder against the cock in his ass, and Gawain felt him clench maddeningly hard.

“I think you can,” he mumbled as he gave him that first, trepid stroke. Lancelot leaned forward against the desk as if that would spare him, but Gawain ground his hips against him, pleasure buzzing deep and hot as Lancelot was an unyielding squeeze around him.

“God _ —no.” _ The words were barely there, lost between one panicked breath and the next. 

"Yes—c'mon, you can come,” Gawain said as he worked his hand, faster and faster, encouraged by the swell and twitch of Lancelot's dick. He slowly began rolling his hips, fucking into him in short thrusts, more of an afterthought than anything, but enough to send Lancelot whimpering at every movement. 

It didn’t take long after that, and Lancelot came with nothing but a sharp exhale. Gawain felt that ripple of tension clench and unclench by each beat around his cock, magnifying the pleasure as he unyieldingly fucked him through it in the same, controlled pace. His cock sputtered dryly onto Gawain's hand, balls certainly empty and aching after the first release. 

When Gawain didn't stop moving his hand fast enough, he shoved backwards desperately, but Gawain countered and kept him in place by jutting his hips forward. 

Lancelot let out a strained yelp, shuddering and shaking as Gawain let go of his dick, barely wet hand coming to grip his hips again as he began moving, began fucking him without giving him another moment to calm down after the high. 

It was harder for him to keep silent as Gawain picked up the pace, going from those slow, deliberate thrusts to fucking him without a gentle thought, using his body with a single-minded goal as he chased his own release.

It was building low in his gut, urging his movements faster as he thrust harder. Lancelot gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles tightening and body tense, a solid thing to Gawain to fuck into, caught between the dick in his ass and the desk. It felt heavenly – like each thrust fucked him open again and again. 

Lancelot leaned forward slightly. His back was damp with sweat, the pale fabric having slowly grown transparent and Gawain could see the red streaks peeking through – not bleeding, but there, wounds that weren’t old. 

His eyes fixed on them. He imagined the last time Lancelot had taken the scourge to his back as he lost himself in the heat of his body, the hold on his hips only growing firmer as he thrust, deep and brutal. This was what Lancelot needed – to be filled roughly, to feel the hurt, to come alive by someone else’s hands. 

The filthy sound of skin-meeting-skin wormed into his ear and pooled down his groin, but nothing could possibly light the fire inside him any quicker than watching his glistening dick disappear into Lancelot’s yielding body.

His fingers carved into Lancelot’s skin, squeezing so hard it ought to bruise in the morning. He fucked into him with such force that Lancelot full-on startled every time he hit home, breathing ragged and shallow, whimpers escaping every other breath. The sounds flared the heat inside Gawain, turning it into a wildfire of pleasure. 

It was pulling all the way out until there was nothing but the tip of his dick left inside, and the mighty shove all the way in again that did it for him. Gawain came with a shudder, goosebumps knotting his skin tight all over his body as his dick went off deep inside Lancelot, coming in hot pulses.

He breathed hard, hips swiveling to catch the last strokes of pleasure. Too drained to hold himself up, he slumped over Lancelot, spent cock digging impossibly deeper. It earned him a strained sound from Lancelot. 

For a long while, all he heard was the gallop of his own heart. With his chest pressed against Lancelot’s back, Gawain wondered if he could feel it; the hard, loud thumps. 

“How did that make you feel?” he asked after a long moment, voice still a little strained. Lancelot shifted, hips digging against the edge of the desk, caught between it and the cock in his ass. 

Lancelot said nothing, just breathed slow and deep, trembling under him. He swallowed hard and Gawain wondered if he would say anything at all. He wasn’t a talker, even less so in the hay.

Realizing he wouldn’t get an answer, Gawain straightened after a beat and gingerly pulled out with a hiss, catching a glance of the spunk dripping out. He tucked himself inside his pants and watched how Lancelot did the same but at half the speed, movements crisp and hands trembling. He turned around as his fingers worked to tug the lacing tight again, shoulders hunched and downcast eyes glistening a little too much. 

It pulled on Gawain’s heartstrings—pulled on everything in him as he leaned close, hand coming to nudge his chin up to kiss him hard and deep, feeling Lancelot respond in the same half-strength way from before. 

“You good?” he asked as he pulled away an inch, Lancelot’s face nothing but a blur so close.

“Sore,” Lancelot croaked out, words painfully quiet. There was that smile again, the polite one, the smile that didn't reach his eyes. 

Gawain smiled a sorry smile. “Remember what I said? That means you exist.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always welcomed. I'm also on Tumblr if you want to follow me there -- [Valerin Berenghar.](https://valerin-berenghar.tumblr.com/)


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